*
As they wound through the halls, the memories Francesca had buried since she’d left the wretched place welled inside her. The vision of Maria’s gray lips and sunken eyes, the black fear that had seized Francesca as she watched her sister die, the desolation during the long days in the detainee’s ward. Even the smell of the building struck her, new construction and rich earth mingling with the pungency of unwashed bodies and hunger—hunger for bread, and hunger for something more than the ravaged lives they were leaving behind beyond the sea.
As for John Lambert, she saw him around every corner, felt his breath in her ear, his hand beneath her clothes.
By the time they reached Williams’s office, her breath was hitched and her pulse pounded in her ears. She wanted to finish this and flee, hide in the matron’s office until she could leave.
Alma knocked sharply at the office door. Once, twice. On the third try, she frowned. “He’s almost always at his desk in the morning.”
Francesca looked over her shoulder, down the hall, wishing with all her might the commissioner would appear. She gulped in a deep, steadying breath. She needed to calm down. She was behaving like a trapped rabbit, soon to be brought to slaughter.
“Why don’t we wait here for a few minutes, and if he doesn’t show, I’ll take you back to the matrons’ room,” Alma said, laying a hand on Francesca’s shoulder. “I’ll have to work for a while, and then we can try again.” Alma touched her hand. “This is almost over.”
“What if he tries to deport me, Alma?” Her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. “I think I made a mistake in coming here. I need to leave.”
“He won’t,” Alma replied, tone firm. “You’ve come all this way. Hold on a little while longer, please? I won’t let him hurt you.”
“I feel faint,” Francesca gasped, her panic strangling her. She couldn’t do this. How did she believe she could possibly do this?
Alma gripped her by the shoulders, steering her to a bench. “Take some deep breaths. We’ll get you some water. Fran, you deserve to be vindicated, and he deserves to be fired. Please, hold on.”
Francesca sucked in breath after breath, eyes closed, trying to push away the images tormenting her behind her eyes, the sneer on Lambert’s face as he sank into her, the greedy sailor at the port in Napoli, her father’s crazed eyes as he struck her. They had tried to break her, but she was strong—stronger than them. Stronger than this.
She must do this.
Francesca nodded slowly. “Yes. I’ll hold on a little while longer.”
She watched immigrants thread through the halls and walk to the registry office. It felt like a bad dream. As if in a trance, she studied their fearful faces and felt the same desperate yearning that they did, all over again. She knew their violent hope, even now.
As ten minutes inched by…fifteen…twenty-five, Francesca watched for Lambert to round the corner every moment.
“Alma—”
“Let’s go,” Alma said, snaking her arm through Francesca’s.
She leaned on her friend gratefully as they walked the short distance to the matron’s office.
“Stay here while I report to my post. I’ll look for Williams, too,” Alma said, depositing her friend in a chair. Though Alma’s tone was commanding, her eyes pleaded with Francesca to agree.
Hesitantly, Francesca nodded her accord.
*
In spite of the hundreds of immigrants in the building, Alma paced, wrung her hands, walked in circles through the registry office attempting to do her job. Lambert sat tall at his desk and nodded as she passed. Her heart dropped to her toes when she met his eye. It was strange—surreal—that he should behave normally while her mind tossed like a storm at sea. She’d corner him before leaving that day to tell him things were through between them—as long as she could meet with the commissioner first and she could keep Francesca out of sight.
She glanced through the window overlooking the bay. Outside, the sky had turned from threatening to black, the wind to a terrifying gale, and many of the immigrants flocked to the windows to watch the waters thrash against the shore. Rain thundered against the roof until the sound nearly drowned out the usual roar of voices within the four walls of the building. There would be no ferry anytime soon, Alma realized, and Francesca would be trapped here until the storm abated. The thought calmed her some, though she felt guilty for it. The storm bought her time.
The staff appeared as irritable as Alma felt, racing to and fro, their brows furrowed with worry. They whispered and exchanged glances. What was Williams up to, they asked, as staff member after staff member was called to speak with him. Rumors ripped through the hall like wildfire on a dry prairie. Something was afoot, but Alma had yet to lay eyes on her boss.
When another hour passed, she felt as if she would burst. She had to talk to the commissioner. She abandoned her post and stalked through the building, this time asking others if they’d seen Williams. They’d all given her a dark look and directed her to different places, but by the time she’d arrived at that location, he was always gone.
When she found him at last, his face glowed red with fury as he barked orders at the men in the baggage room, who appeared to be making a mess of the mountain of items rather than keeping it in manageable order.
“Sir!” she called after him. He looked as if he were poised to dash off in another direction.
“What is it, Alma?” he demanded. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“I’ve brought the proof you requested, sir. About the incident I mentioned.”
“It will have to wait,” he said curtly.
“But sir, it can’t wait. She can’t wait—”
“I’m sorry, Alma, she’ll have to.” He turned on his heel and darted in the opposite direction.
*
Francesca followed Alma to Williams’s office a second time, hours later, hoping to catch him this time, only to find a crowded bench outside his office. They sat and waited their turn. Watchman after nurse after matron filed into his office ahead of them, each emerging stricken or relieved. With each additional staff member, Francesca’s dread deepened. The waiting became unbearable. Alma stepped ahead of the line and poked her head inside Williams’s office, told him it was urgent, that she was worried about their crossing paths with Lambert. But he sent her outside to wait.
She flicked a glance at Alma.
Her friend was watching her closely. Alma could sense the tension that coiled inside her.
“Should we try again later?” Alma said. “He’s very hard to track down today.”
Francesca breathed a sigh of relief. “Sì. Let’s try again in a little while.”
They began the trip to the other end of the building to the matron’s office.
They hadn’t gone far when Francesca spotted him—the inspector. He was taller than the throng in the hallway and could see easily over their heads. He looked the same: trimmed beard, balding, plain face.